The last few weeks have been especially rough.  There was one day, in particular, during which the world seemed to be closing in on me:  I couldn't get from point A to B without above average amounts of pain.  I couldn't open jars, write for more than a few minutes at a time, or lock my finicky door.

It certainly doesn't help that the locksmith who installed the lock on my door must have been an ex-convict because he jerry-rigged this thing to be so difficult to lock/unlock that it takes five minutes every time to get the damn key to work.  I guess it's better to be safe then sorry ...

That said, I wasn't going to allow a little bit (OK, a lot) of pain stand in the way of an overbooked social schedule, with parties, dinners and celebrations to attend every day of the week.  The world kicked back into overdrive after the lull of the holidays.

As the week progressed, my limp became more pronounced.  By Friday I was outside of a club, approaching the doorman, and he said, "A man with swagger like that must be important."  It made my day!  I smiled and thanked him, and proceeded downstairs (slowly) but felt as though my pain was not for nothing after a shout out from a giant bouncer like that.

There are worse things in this world, I suppose.

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In a snow emergency, you'll find one thing in New York City:  some tough cookie seniors walking around.

Last week, New York City (where I live) got dumped with a TON of snow.  It doesn't happen very often, but when it snows ... it snows heavily.  A few hours after the storm obliterated the city (turning it into a serene, pretty and QUIET place), I laced up my boots, zipped up my jacket and journeyed out into the polar ice cap to investigate the damage.

I was amazed to see one thing in particular:  white snow.  (Usually it's yellow or black by the time I get to it.)  I was also amazed to see the number of senior citizens -- we're talking really old people -- going about their day with their coming and going.  That takes a lot of nerve, in my opinion, and it's reason #529 that New Yorkers are tough cookies.

Here I was, nervous that I'd fall on my butt or take an embarrassing spill trying to cross the street -- and yet these 70-to-80-year-olds were trekking through the snow complete with a D'Agastino plastic shopping bag covering their frosted hair.

I thought to myself no wonder most people their age go to Florida in the winter and then reflected on just how many people didn't and who, instead, braved the elements to get to the store or the restaurant or anywhere else they were going.

How they do it is a mystery to me.  But the fact that they're still up and at it really inspired me.  I should only be that stubborn (and foolish?) when I'm that age!

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It could just be the summertime, but the urge to exercise has once again surfaced.  However, climbing aboard an elliptical trainer for the first time in (many) weeks seemed daunting.

So I did what any other irrational human being would do:  I took an aerobics class.  For the first time ever.

Seventy minutes later, after the Bataan Death March (complete with bouncy ball) was finished, I wanted to die.

It would have been ideal if it had ended there.  Seventy-two hours later I am still feeling the ill effects of a strenuous workout that, at the time, just felt "challenging."  Little did I know I'd be hobbling across streets, limping to restaurant bathrooms, or falling out of the car all these days later.

In my defense, however, I lasted through the entire class -- with the support of the all female participants and overly caffeinated aerobics instructor.  "See you again" were words that made me smile, despite the pain of doing something stupid (like taking a class for the first time, pushing it, and neglecting to stretch and "ease into it").

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Nothing is worse than when both of your ankles swell up.  I'd rather my knees or hips or back or hands or any other joint to stop working.  The ankles, for some reason (well, I know the reason), really get to me.

This morning I woke up, and before I opened my eyes I knew that it would be a tough day.  Down at the foot of the bed were two very achy ankles.  I knew that eventually I'd suffer the consequences of playing softball with senior citizens, and this morning was the world redeeming its "I told you so."  If I hadn't hit a huge triple, threw the bat down, and ran like I was chased by the Boogie Man, I'd probably be walking today.

Instead, I am hobbling around in great agony, taking with me the feeling of sweet, sweet victory last night.

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This past weekend was a very interesting one for me.  I opened my mind and, as a result, hooked up my body.

Yoga has never been something I'd consider a hobby (or even an interest) of mine.  Probably because, in college all those years ago, I signed up for a class just to follow a girl on whom I had a crush.

Needless to say, that didn't end well (on any front) and left a really sour taste in my mouth for yoga.

It might have been the attitude (a good one), the clean country air, summer sun or all of the above which conspired to make my first (technically second) yoga experience a really great one.  Alignment, happiness and clarity came together at once to make me feel better -- on the spot.

Seriously, what the heck is this all about?  I am definitely on to something here, there is much more to come.

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